had fallen at Drumclog, I had not troubled
thee or any of thy kind."

"Nor had I been minded or allowed to visit thee, John Graham, if I
had fallen in fair fight, contending for Christ's crown and the
liberty of the Scots Kirk, but these wounds upon my head and breast
speak not of war, but of murder. Because thou didst murder Christ's
confessors, and the souls of the martyrs cry from beneath the altar, I
am come to show thee things which are to be and the doing of Him who
saith, 'I will avenge.' Ye have often said go, and he goeth, and come
and he cometh, but this nicht ye will come with me, and see things
that will shake even thy bold heart." And so in vision they went.

Claverhouse was standing in a country kirkyard, and at the hour of
sunset. Round him were ancient graves with stones whose inscriptions
had been worn away by rough weather, and upon which the grass was
growing rank. They were the resting-places of past generations whose
descendants had died out, and whose names were forgotten in the land
where once they may have been mighty people. Before him was a
burying-place he knew, for it belonged to his house. There lay his
father, and there he had laid his mother, the Lady Magdalene Graham,
to rest, taken as he often thought from the evil to come. The ground
had been stirred again, and there was another grave. It was of tiny
size, not that of a man or woman, but of a child, and one that had
died in its infancy. It was carefully tended, as if the mother still
lived and had not yet forgotten her child. At the sight of it
Claverhouse turned to the figure by his side.

"Ye mean not----"

"Read," said the Covenanter, "for the writing surely is plain." And
this is what Claverhouse saw:

"JAMES GRAHAME,
Only son and child of my Lord Dundie.
Aged eight months."

"Ye longed for him and ye were proud of him, and if the sword of the
righteous should slay thee, ye boasted in your heart that there was a
man-child to continue your line. But there shall be none, and thine
evil house shall die from out the land, like the house of Ahab, the
son of Omri, who persecuted the saints. Fathers have seen their sons'
heads hung above the West Port to bleach in the sun for the sake of
the Covenant, and mothers have wept for them who languished in the
dungeon of the Bass and wearied for death. This is the cup ye are
drinking this night before the time, for, b